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Stormy Saturday | The Press



As you read these words, if the weather hasn’t been wrong, a storm should be rolling in within a few feet. I wish us. There’s nothing like a snowstorm in the middle of the afternoon off. No need to face it. On the contrary. We can even enjoy it. Close our screens. Sit in front of the window. And watch her go. Like watching a show. Warm.

In a few seconds, it transports us to another world. So our street is no longer alike. So our street is no longer deja-vu.

It’s stormy. It’s party time. Billions of confetti fall and twirl. Heaven merges with earth. In a big ball in white. The impromptu guests have no choice. The trees, the benches, the cars, the passers-by are bleached, too.

OK, that will do, poetry! You Saturday Nelligan! After all, this is a chronicle we’re supposed to have here. But no matter how much I darken it, the page remains blank. As if the words disappeared under the avalanche. This is the opposite effect of the extreme elements. This is not the calm after the storm. It’s the calm during the storm. Nothing is more soothing than watching the blizzard outside, from the comfort of your insides. And appeasement, we really need it, right now.

But not as far as others.

We may get lost in our thoughts, but reality always ends up finding us. We feel so lucky, in our cozy nest, watching it snow, so sheltered, that we end up feeling bad for those who had to leave theirs because bombs were falling from the sky.

The firestorm that hurts and kills. Who covers the landscape with red. which destroys life.

How scary it must be to realize that our place, our hearth, our home, is the place to leave. It’s so absurd to flee your lair to save your skin. Our street, our neighborhood, our city, our country cannot protect us. The only way out is the unknown. Because all our known is burned.

If Canada has a role to play in this historical drama that is unfolding at the moment, it is that of welcoming. Our arms and our armies do not frighten Russia. And our economic sanctions have their limits. What is immense here is our territory and our heart. Let’s open both to the Ukrainian people. Without waiting.

Last Thursday, on the show All one morning, on ICI Première, a Quebecer of Ukrainian origin, Olena Polonska, told how much she came up against an inhuman bureaucracy, wanting to bring her mother, her friend and her friend’s daughter to our house. Last I heard, she still hadn’t succeeded. Three women are fleeing the horrors of war, now is not the time to make them experience the 12 labors of Asterix. It is shameful. Can we make it a national priority? Not just for them, for all the refugees from Ukraine who want to land here. Can we put ourselves in emergency mode, rather than closing the embassy at noon? We know that there is only one way to make the authorities move, and that is popular pressure. So, hurry them to hurry.

We are so helpless in this conflict, when we can do something, let’s do it, damn it!

The greatest thing Trudeau could have done during his trip to Europe was to bring people back with him. The living victims of this hell. Let’s help them concretely.

We’re going to get pumped, but not too much. Let’s go back to the window. Breathe eyes. Appreciating our chance to live on the bright side of winter. Where on the snow these verses are written:

Of this great lonely country
I scream before I shut up
To all men on earth
My home is your home
Between its four walls of ice
I put my time and my space
To prepare the fire, the place
For the humans of the horizon
And humans are of my race

Nothing more beautiful has ever been written about the nature of a country and the nature of its inhabitants. Thank you, Mr. Vigneault.

It was the chronicle of a snowy, icy or rainy Saturday, or all three. Like our thoughts.

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